


The Intersection Between Death and Fear

by Tallihensia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Case Fic, Drama, Existing Relationship, Human Experimentation, Ickiness, M/M, Mad Scientists, Mild Horror, Post-Series, Slash, death (no main characters), h/c, hopefully eerier and eerier as it goes on, strange doings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8438677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallihensia/pseuds/Tallihensia
Summary: Illya and Napoleon are off on separate assignments.  As Illya tracks death across the countryside, their cases intersect... and Napoleon learns what happens when a mad scientist makes a match of death and fear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : general death, horror, and ickiness, pay attention to the title... (It's not what I'd call "graphic depictions of violence" for the AO3 tag, but I thought I'd err on the side of caution and mark it.
> 
>  **Spoilers:** general series, reference to past side characters but no knowledge really needed of them for the read.
> 
> Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams. This story was written for free entertainment purposes only and may not be reproduced for profit or altered without permission.
> 
> Notes: For the MFU-Scrapbook 2016 Halloween challenge, [picture posted by LJ user bonniejean1953](http://mfu-scrapbook.livejournal.com/1311029.html) with a request for slash, h/c, eerie. Cross-posted to the Scrapbook. <http://mfu-scrapbook.livejournal.com/1324846.html>
> 
> Set a few years after the series (no Return movie-verse, tv only)

## The Intersection Between Death and Fear

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/bonniejean1953/10302283/14463/14463_1000.jpg)

Illya thoughtfully stared at the corpse of the latest victim. A rabbit, torn and dead, but not eaten. Most predators would have eaten the rabbit. Most predators wouldn't have an UNCLE agent tracking them across two countries and a thousand miles. 

Not all the victims had been rabbits. The first were birds. The first recognizable as a pattern. Illya had been called in for the mysterious death of two of the local villagers, dead with no obvious signs, but fear writ clearly upon their pale faces. That, combined with a Thrush account code used to send supplies to the remote mountain area. But the supplies had vanished long before the people and birds had died. 

It was that time of year intersecting between fall and winter – after all the deciduous tree leaves had fallen but the snow had yet to fall, and the grasses and other seeded plants were poking up through the ground in response to the rain. It tended to give the countryside a foreboding look, with bare-limbed trees against the sharply rising mountains, broken by the occasional pine that still had its needles. Prey animals were stocking up heavily for the winter shortages, and while the predators were also hunting, it was the usual sort of nature. These other deaths could be shrugged off by many as part of this harsh land before winter, but Illya knew nature's death, as cruel as it could sometimes be, and these were not part of it.

As Illya had spread his investigation out, more deaths were found in the bustling industrial city to the south. Cats and dogs this time, and no humans – that he knew of. But there was a pattern to the deaths... a pattern that he had followed south, maddingly never quite catching up to whoever, or whatever, was behind them. 

He was back in countryside again, this time with more of the rolling hills and plains rather than the sharp mountains, but the deaths were the same. The shorter days and extended evenings made his hunt all the harder to follow, with much of his time in the dark waiting impatiently for daylight so he could resume.

A strident beeping pattern interrupted Illya's review of the case. With a blink, he returned his attention to the here and now, and gave a quick glance around the barren landscape before he reached for his shirt pocket. Bringing out his pen, he quickly flipped the cap and tuned the receiver. 

"Yes?" he asked with a modicum of patience.

"That's no way to answer a pen, Mr. Kuryakin. Identification, please." 

Illya rolled his eyes. It was a constant battle between him and the current office, which had picked up a 'security' need within the last couple of years. He understood security in general, but this was ridiculous. "A field agent identifies second, due to the circumstance of being in the field." He sharply accented the last three words.

"Head office needs identification to verify no miscreants have picked up your communicator."

There had been a particular incident last year that led to this infernal back and forth, with identification required on all ends. This could go on all day even though they had been the ones to call him and had already used his name. With a sigh, Illya gave in and gave his credentials, just to get it over with. 

The office responded with theirs, then got on to the message. "Your current mission is aborted, Agent Kuryakin. Report to UNCLE Headquarters in Zurich as soon as you can get there."

Illya pulled the pen away from his face and frowned at it. He was very near there now, in fact, though he hadn't started this mission close by. It would take him only a couple of hours to get there, and most of that would be hiking back to his car. "Explain." He hated aborting a mission, particularly when he was following a nebulous trail of death across the countryside.

The office voice sobered, a note dipping into the seriousness of the tone that no agent ever liked to hear. "I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Paszek's body was found in Bern. Headquarters wants you in to consult due to circumstances."

Paszek. Illya had met him only once. In Headquarters two weeks ago, as Napoleon was shaking hands with the Interpol agent and laughing with a smirk at Illya as he declared he would be happy to assist on the case. Napoleon and the other agent had left that day, with Napoleon teasing Illya with all the luxuries and pretty women he would be surrounded with on the diplomatic escort. 

It was supposed to have been a low-risk, high-profile case. Easy in, use UNCLE resources to supplement Interpol's work, and out again with a leak sealed. Nobody was supposed to have been in such danger that bodies were to be found.

"Napoleon?" Illya forced his numb lips to work, forcing a steady voice through the dryness of his mouth.

"No sign. He hasn't checked in for two days, but that covered only one missed schedule. However, neither he nor Mr. Paszek have been seen for thirty hours. We weren't notified, though, as Interpol simply thought they'd gone to check out a lead." Her voice hardened. "We have had words with their people to ensure that does not happen again."

Not the worst of news. Not the best of news. Illya forced his worry into abeyance. It would not help him now. "I'm on my way."

The trail of death he was following would have to wait. Other deaths... and preventing more... took priority. 

Napoleon had better be alive.

... ... ... 

"We brought you in because the manner of death was similar to ones a former Thrush agent used."

That could describe any number of deaths and agents. Illya tightly controlled his impulse to fidget and instead gave at least the appearance of patience while he waited. 

The UNCLE agents here were known to him – there were not many staffing the various Headquarters that he did not know. Competent. The slight fluster that they showed now could probably be attributed to either Napoleon's disappearance or Illya's presence. Both of them had that effect on people sometimes, even on experienced agents.

They handed around some photos, the set making their way slowly from person to person to Illya. As a method of delivery, Illya preferred the New York table that spun around. It had apparently been custom-made for Mr. Waverly, though, and wasn't a standard in most UNCLE headquarters.

"Before he was killed, Mr. Paszek was cut along both of his arms, his upper back, and his lower abdomen. Then his throat was cut."

Illya stilled. As motionless as he'd already been, he became even moreso, his body turning to the perfect moment before fight or flight, predator or prey. He knew that pattern. The reason they called him in was suddenly clear.

"In our records, this seemed to be the signature method of the Thrush enforcer, John Smith." The agent grimaced. "Obviously a fake name."

If this had been any other moment, Illya might have grinned. As it was, he felt no inclination to do so. "No, it was his birth name. His parents were singularly unimaginative people. Smith is the most common last name in the United States, and John the most common first. It was an intersection that happens more often than one would hope. It probably also explains much of why he became an enforcer." 

Taking a breath, Illya glanced at the photo set two people away from him. "When he had the time, and his superiors allowed him, Smith's preferred kill was a slice along the right arm," Illya could feel his own burning in sympathetic response, "then a cut across the stomach," it hurt sometimes still, on cold days, "along the upper back," a cut designed to draw the attention up again, exposing the throat, though it hurt less than the stomach, "then the throat." Illya paused for weight. "The left-arm cut was done post-mortem, after an associate of his pointed out the lack of symmetry." 

There was a brief flurry of photo sorting from the person holding the set, obviously looking for the left arm.

"John Smith is dead." Illya pronounced it with finality, leaving no room for doubt. "Could somebody be imitating him, looking for revenge?"

"You are sure of his death?"

"Very sure," Illya responded flatly. There had been a burning pain across his stomach and back, a hand in his hair, drawing his head to expose his throat. A manic grin of a killer about to make another kill with his own hands. Then... then the killer had been dead himself. His blood and brains splattered across Illya, as four bullets took him from the side, head and chest. 

Napoleon had come to him some moments after, as fast as he could, though slower than his bullets had been. Illya hadn't had the strength for one of his normal cutting remarks on a rescue, proof that he lived. Napoleon had untied him, taken care of the wounds, then held him, all without words. Too close, for both of them.

Smith was dead. And if he had a successor, or a copy-cat, then the danger to Napoleon had just increased a thousand-fold.

The photos finally came to him. 

Illya looked at the pictures, taken at least a day after death, and he sucked in his breath. "I need to see the body."

They looked at each other, and then at him. Before they could come out with any stupid statements or questions, Illya stood, tossing the close-up photo of the stomach wound on the table. "See the black marks around the wound? Your case and mine just intersected. I need to see the body, now."

... ... ...

"It's not contagious?" The doctor and agents who were with him asked again for reassurance. 

Illya grimaced. He prodded with the blunt end of an instrument, holding it in gloved fingers, at the edges of the wound, now blackened to an inch out all around it, the wound enlarging as the flesh collapsed inward. 

"Every animal that has been found with similar post-mortem collapse has been studied exhaustively. They have been sampled, cultured, cells put under the most powerful microscopes, and biologists brought in. Nothing has been found. No infection... and no explanation. 

Fresh wounds show no abnormalities. But after death, the black marks appear, and the flesh around the wound starts dissolving. It stops three days after death. It is not rot, it is not infection, it is nothing known to scientists. The closest explanation that even comes close, though woefully lacking in rational detail, is that the flesh around the wound has been drained of vitality and... collapses."

At the start, they hadn't realized. Animals had fur, after all. But animals were smaller, and the wounds larger. The collapsing of the flesh around the wound had been much, much more noticeable after the second day. They weren't sure at first if it stopped at all. 

Everybody who had been exposed to the first deaths had been in quarantine for days while the scientists flocked in to study it. Illya had been the lone exception as he tracked the deaths across the countryside, yet even he had worn a full containment suit, as clumsy as it was, least he spread it to others. 

Gradually, as they had found nothing, and as it became obvious the spread stopped after three days, and no living creature (or other dead ones) developed symptoms, they relaxed the containment. Illya still gave blood and samples of his own every three days, though, so they could keep monitoring it. 

"We are as sure as we can be at the moment, however it is still unknown and being studied. You will need to give a report to the Geneva laboratory. Names of everybody who has been even in the same room as the body, and those who discovered him."

Illya ran his eyes over the body. Other than the wound patterns (and yes, the left arm had been cut post-mortem), there were a few oddities. Mr. Paszek would also be going to Geneva, in a sealed container and secure transportation. 

One of the things that bothered Illya the most was not the wounds themselves, nor even the infinitely familiar pattern of them. No, it was the look on Paszek's face. There was terror there, even in death. Not as finely etched as was on the villager's, yet it was there all the same. If the wounds had not been there, Illya might have said that this man had died of fear.

And whatever Mr. Paszek had been through... Napoleon was likely there as well.

Illya took a moment to breath, his memories full of Napoleon. Napoleon laughing, teasing Illya, joining in some fun. Napoleon serious, studying maps, learning the cases. Napoleon deadly, as few others saw him, intent upon the rescue. Napoleon... Illya had to get to him. He had to. 

... ... ...

/Three days ago/

Napoleon raised a glass of champagne to the pretty lady looking his way, then he returned to his conversation. "I'm sorry, Andrei, what were you saying?"

The Interpol agent glanced towards the woman and then shook his head. "My friend, it is true of you, what they say."

"Some of it," Napoleon admitted without even asking what it was they said. He sipped from his glass and smirked. It didn't matter what was said. Some of it was true, some of it was not, and only he and Illya knew which was what. 

Just then, the American Embassy ambassador caught sight of Napoleon and frowned heavily before turning away to his own conversation.

Silently, Napoleon sighed. It was a good thing this wasn't a serious undercover case. He'd already been approached by four people wondering why UNCLE was at the party, and a few more veiled offers of help, or subtle hindrance. He and Illya were too well known. Together or separately, people knew them. Thrush had whole thick files on them, and passed their pictures out to all their cronies. It was bad enough when they had been simple enforcement agents, but as the years went by and their reputation spread, it had become near unmanageable. 

Mr. Waverly would have given Napoleon a steely-eyed glare and a hurumph, and said what was a liability in a section two was an advantage for a section one. He'd made no secrets of wanting them, both of them, in the upper ranks. Used them as agents, his best agents, but also directed them onwards for the future.

Napoleon wasn't yet forty. He'd wanted to stay in harness until they chained him to that desk kicking and screaming.

What had seemed like a great plan at twenty-five wasn't quite as appealing at thirty-eight. Honestly, he'd thought he would have been dead before he ever got here. And if it hadn't been for Illya on multiple occasions, he might well have. The two of them had made it this far, together.

"Andrei, let's talk." Napoleon touched his companion lightly upon the arm to both get his attention and to subtly check the body language. Touch was under-rated as a tool, but it was one Napoleon had found very useful over the years. Not that he suspected his current partner, but it was habit and custom. Andrei was, as usual, pretty much straight-forward and earnest; not hiding anything or shrinking from Napoleon even in a controlled flinch. Guilty people were not very comfortable near the law. Well, other than femme fatales – they were a whole other kettle of fish and different rules applied.

The two agents moved to a side room a few halls down from the party and did a perimeter check. Napoleon wasn't too concerned, but caution was another ingrained reflex. 

"That was the last three of the men on your list," Napoleon said bluntly, "And nobody so far has given any signs of being a mole. The usual run of politicians and aides, not all in for the goodness of their hearts, if they have hearts, but not selling out. Either they're very subtle, or you need a new direction to look in."

Napoleon didn't discount subtlety, especially for a long-term mole, but at this point in his career, he was fairly good at finding them. Enough friends and co-workers had turned over the years for him to constantly be on the alert, and he did his research on the backgrounds and paper trails as well. None of the people Agent Paszek had indicated as possibilities had made it past Napoleon's sniff test – and UNCLE's horde of analysts looking into the paperwork.

Andrei sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know what to tell you, Napoleon. They definitely have a leak, and we just can't pin it down. Those were the most likely of our suspects after two years of investigations. Whoever it is, is cautious and careful. We had hoped that UNCLE could find something more, especially with this last leak getting out to Thrush."

The Interpol agent was mostly a desk worker and embassy person himself. His field work had been vitally important, but not as overtly dangerous as Napoleon and Illya's. He didn't have the same instincts trained into him. But at least he knew when to come for help, and to listen when more experienced agents talked.

"I agree that they have a leak, but we're going to have to cast a different---" Napoleon broke off as the hallway door opened.

"There you are, Mr. Paszek. I was looking for a dance partner and you were nowhere to be found." She was pretty and petite in that way that people called 'delicate' and graceful like a ballerina. Though she'd addressed Andrei, her eyes were on Napoleon.

"Alicia," Andrei smiled, a genuine grin. "I've told you before, no need to be formal. You're practically everybody's little sister."

He went on to introduce Napoleon, and Napoleon played it to the hilt, giving her attention and flattery, letting her drape herself along his side as they conversed. Andrei eventually convinced her to go back to the ball without her.

Napoleon gave it a few minutes for security and then turned very seriously to his current partner. "That's your mole, right there."

Andrei's mouth dropped open. "You have to be kidding. Alicia is no spy."

"It is a mistake to underestimate the women simply because they are women," Napoleon said grimly. "She is sharp, intelligent, an accomplished actress and flirt, tracked us to this out of the way room, and knew about me before you'd even introduced us. She apparently knows everybody, is on friendly relations with all, and I can well imagine how much of the confidante she has been to everybody with a secret to share." 

Slowly, Andrei closed his mouth, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The door opened again. "It should be nice, not being underestimated for once. However, in this case, I find it distinctly annoying. Hands up, boys."

... ... ...

It was always the femme fatales. Perhaps not always, but often enough where Napoleon was concerned. Illya was going to be sarcastic as anything when he heard about this. 

Napoleon wiggled his hands and tried to figure out if there was any give in the bindings. It didn't feel like it. It felt more like they were going numb instead. With a sigh, he shifted to try and give some relief. Next to him, Andrei tried the same, with as little result.

This particular femme fatale hadn't wanted them. Had simply wanted them gone with as little fuss as possible. She'd taken them to her district manager, who pointed out that body disposal wasn't as easy as people liked to imagine. In her turn, she'd reminded him that their ally, Thrush, had sent out word that a scientist was looking for some experimental subjects, and that two Interpol agents surely fit the list of requirements on the memo. 

The 'two Interpol agents' had raised Napoleon's eyebrows briefly, considering she'd gone through their things and knew darn well he was UNCLE, as well as snagging most of his useful items for herself as she found them. However, at the remark, she'd given him a slow wink, and he was sure this was her way of thanking him for not under-estimating her – however the thanks worked out. She probably also didn't want the fuss. Interpol was easier to deal with, and dispose of, than UNCLE.

So now they were somewhere a distance from where they'd been, in a house that didn't look much like a mad scientist lived there, but one obviously did. Complete with obscure machinery with sparks and electrodes, and a make-shift jail they'd been thrown into (without removing their bindings), and a mad scientist and his assistant. 

The assistant seemed like the saner of the two, except that he was obviously aiding and abetting the whole thing. Making helpful suggestions like "perhaps I should give them an electrical jolt to keep from testing their bonds?" and then using a cattle prod on them upon getting the assent from the scientist. So, not very sane after all.

Illya was going to kill Napoleon. It was supposed to be a simple assignment, babysitting and guiding the Interpol agent, not something to get him captured and in danger. The females in the job were expected. Getting captured by one... Illya would kill him.

"Spies should have a lot of death in them, should they not?" The scientist was rubbing his hands. "All that nastiness, the wars, the conflicts. There are deaths all the time, and spies seek it out, excel in it, create it, go to it. Many, many deaths. There must be deaths to draw upon."

The hair on the back on Napoleon's neck rose. That didn't sound promising.

Andrei turned his head to look at Napoleon, eyes wide. 

There wasn't a damn thing Napoleon could say or do in response.

"Get the dangerous one and put him in the chair. We shall see how much death is within him."

The assistant came for Andrei. He might be a desk-agent, but he worked out regularly and was strong and superficially tough. And was younger. Side-by-side with Napoleon, it was an easy mistake to make. Napoleon was only average size, and the field work he did emphasized agility and running (both to and from danger), more than brute strength alone. 

This mistake might work to the agents' advantage, since it would let Napoleon have some time not under their direct eye to get free. He still had a single explosive button left on his shirt, and a lockpick in his belt, plus his shoes. If he could get to any of them. There hadn't been a good time to try at any previous point, being under constant surveillance from one or another of their captors.

Between the cattle prod and the chains and the bindings, the assistant got Andrei into the chair that resembled an execution electrocution and strapped him in. Andrei didn't go quietly and Napoleon was vindictively happy at the obvious swelling across the assistant's face and the way he swiped at his nose. 

"We're going to need a better way to handle human subjects," the assistant remarked as he shook out his hands. "The villagers didn't put up nearly so much of a fuss."

Napoleon ground his teeth at hearing they weren't the first. The way these things usually went, that meant some poor souls were dead now, victims of the madness of power.

The scientist barely looked up from his fiddling on the mess of machinery in the room, moving from one contraption to another and flicking switching and reading dials. "Yes, yes. But we need them conscious. The drugged animals couldn't even raise a shade, let alone a solid ghost."

"Yes, but when we stopped drugging them, once they were tied up and muzzled, they were easy to connect. Could we tranquilize the humans and then wait until they come out of it?"

"Humm..." The scientist looked up thoughtfully. "It normally takes a few hours for all senses to come back after being chemically subdued. But it's not like we're in a hurry. Yes, we could try that."

Napoleon was no fan of drugs. Better than bullets, to be sure, but they were impossible to fight through. Truth drugs were the worst, but regular chloroform was no fun either.

"I'll have to research it first," the scientist went on, moving out from the machinery with a set of wires he unwound as he approached Andrei. "Find out what works best for what weight, what the after-effects are... we had to pay dear for these subjects. I don't want to waste them if the formula isn't right."

"I could get us more a lot easier and for free," the assistant grumbled even as he accepted the wires and started putting them onto stick pads with practiced ease. "At least we don't have to shave the humans," he noted as he stuck them onto Andrei's forehead.

"We've been over this," the scientist sighed as he walked back into the machines. "The normal humans didn't have any deaths. None that we could use. Just the run of the mill sorts that everybody has. The baby... now the baby was the most interesting, and actually manifested... but who is going to be afraid of a dead baby? What is a baby going to do to them?"

As the two kept talking to each other, completely ignoring Andrei as a person even as they attached electrodes on him, Napoleon's blood chilled. This wasn't a first step of an experiment – this was several steps along. He didn't like the sounds of where it was going. Dead babies were something he was afraid of, and dead villagers as well. His job was to protect people, but it was obvious he was late to the game on this one, and currently unable to do anything about it. 

He knew better than to completely dismiss what they were saying, no matter how insane it sounded – his years of fighting Thrush and other evil had shown him there was more to the world than what they knew about. The borders between science and superstition were sometimes very thin indeed.

The slim blade was almost free of his shoe. Now if they would just keep ignoring him... Napoleon fixed the blade where it was and wiggled his foot out of the shoe. He hated it when the bad guys tied his hands behind his back – not being able to see usually meant a part of his flesh cut as well as the ropes, no matter how much he practiced. He wedged the shoe in a convenient corner and turned his back to it, searching with his numb fingers and hoping he could feel enough to get lined up properly.

Andrei screamed.

It was an involuntary sound of fear and pain combined, torn from lungs that had not wanted to let it out.

Napoleon winced. He'd been there himself many times before. Some things you just couldn't fight, no matter how much you wanted to. He risked part of his concentration to look.

They had turned the electricity for the machines on, and Andrei was arching in the chair, as much as his restraints would let him.

The scientist watched avidly. "Yes, yes. Pain. Pain leads to fear. Fear leads to death. Death... bring the death. Increase the fear, and we will have the death."

"Circuits are full," the assistant warned.

The scientist jerked in surprise. "Already? We should have more power."

"The house we're borrowing is on a sub-grid. Cities might have resources, but they're spread too thin. If we draw more we risk blowing out the connection."

The scientist wrinkled his nose in irritation. "We should have stayed home. A full generator, all our equipment, back-ups..."

"Too many deaths." The assistant turned a dial. "Changing input now. Fear stimulus increasing, pain decreasing."

The screaming turned to whimpers.

Napoleon steeled himself. In their line of work, they often couldn't afford to be anything other than dispassionate about the pain of others. Nothing he could do about it at the moment anyhow. Fear was also something they came across, something the bad guys used and enjoyed often.

For an instant, a memory flashed across his eyes, of a much younger Illya cowering in a corner and crying, scuttling away from him, every step of Napoleon towards him making him more terrified. His brave and bold Illya, reduced by drugs and chemicals to unrecognizing fear. Napoleon had stopped himself from his instinct to get closer, letting Illya have his distance. The drugs had taken time to clear from Illya's mind and body. Napoleon had worried the whole time.

They hadn't known each other for too long then, only a few years, but it was enough to know how well they worked together. It was enough to know how valuable Illya was. The easy value to acknowledge was as an UNCLE agent and top resource for Mr. Waverly. The harder value to acknowledge was to himself. Napoleon had seen so many other agents dead, crippled, or broken. One had to put it to one side, to recognize them as human, as friends... and then let them go and move on. He hadn't wanted to do that for Illya. 

In that instance, he hadn't had to. The drug wasn't permanent, and it had left Illya grumpy and with a head-ache but no worse.

Napoleon feared that Andrei wouldn't come off so well. Yet he hoped he would as well. Not just for Andrei's sake alone... Napoleon did not forget that he was slated to be the experiment next.

He bit his lip as he felt blood run down his hand. Hopefully he was cutting more of the rope than his wrists, or he wouldn't have to worry much about the machine or his future place in them.

"Fear is maximized. Conditions are primed. Ready when you are."

"Time," the scientist murmured. "Time for death, where there is no time anymore. To this world.... death comes to all." He giggled, "Just a little more literally with my machine." He nodded. "Turn the switch."

There was no obvious difference in the sounds in the room. The electricity continued to hum and spark. The machines continued to whir. Andrei kept whimpering. Yet there was a change. A most definitely change.

Napoleon froze instinctually as every hair on his body rose. There was something in the room with them. Something... that wasn't supposed to be there.

The scientist frowned. "That's it?"

Napoleon breathed slowly and carefully, not moving, not wanting to attract the attention of... well, of anything right now. Even Andrei had stopped his cries, only breathing harshly now.

"Turn up the power."

The hums increased in pitch slightly. There was a blue shimmer in the air in front of the chair where Andrei was tied down. It... it looked like an old man. And a woman behind him.

The scientist snorted. "That's nothing special. Those are the deaths everybody has. Grandfather. Mother. Nobody fears them. They will not rejoice in a kill." He turned to glare at Andrei. "He is supposed to be a _spy_! Spies see death all the time. They kill. He should have more deaths attached to him! Did they cheat us?"

Napoleon quietly started work on his bonds again. Andrei was a desk-spy, a diplomat, a person who worked in the field with politicians and embassies. Vitally important work as far as security of the world went, and his work often prevented the more violent type from spilling out into the streets. Just... not the type that saw death regularly. Unlike Napoleon. Very unlike Napoleon. Napoleon had better hurry and free himself before they got around to using him in that machine of theirs.

"Turn it up more – increase the fear. There must be a death with the fear." The scientist's eyes gleamed. "That was the key. The key to it all. Bringing up death... that was easy... the line between us is not so remote – they prefer to forget. But the deaths around us... they stay with us, always. Getting death to manifest, though... ah, now that took work."

"Increasing fear. Getting something – you should stand behind the line now." The assistant motioned to the scientist, breaking his ramblings.

With a glance to the floor, the man moved closer to the chair before turning and staring out at the blue shimmering. 

A low growl could be heard now, rough and dangerous. The faint images of the old man and the women were over-shone by a large dog that slowly became less see-through even as Napoleon watched.

"A dog? We've had plenty of those from the animals. That's disappointing." The scientist sighed. "What a waste."

The dog lunged towards them and stopped short. After a few moments of pacing, it turned in a circle and stopped when it caught sight of Napoleon in the cell.

There was drool dropping from the jaws, the gums pulled back from the teeth. The dog walked in a slightly uncoordinated way that didn't make it any less dangerous. More-so, in fact. 

"Huh." The assistant left his dials to come near the scientist and watch as the dog stalked towards Napoleon. "we usually can't get them to attack humans. Other animals, yes, but not humans. They are too accustomed to not attacking in life."

"One of the other limitations of bringing up death," the scientist sighed. "If we could only direct the dead, it wouldn't matter as much. But there are so many factors! And death will only manifest as it was in life."

The dog leapt through the solid bars separating it and Napoleon, lunging with a howl towards the human it could attack.

Napoleon rolled, bringing his arms up in front of his face, the last of the rope parting with a snap.

Where the steel bars had been no obstacle for the ghost dog, Napoleon's arm was apparently solid enough, with the jaws clamping down, teeth to the bone. 

Napoleon cried out at the pain, sharper than a normal wound, and thrust the dog away, as he rolled to the corner again. He grabbed his shoe with his left hand, the right hanging down limply next to him. 

The dog growled and advanced again. Napoleon's swipe at it with the shoe passed through it's body.

Now that was just unfair. That the ghost could hurt him, but he couldn't hurt it. Very unfair.

Napoleon barely dodged out of the way of another snap. 

Then the blue lights blinked out and the dog faded away, still growling at him.

The machinery itself was quieter as well. Or maybe that was his focus from the pain. Napoleon dropped the shoe and grabbed his bleeding arm, putting pressure on the wound.

"He was tied up. Wasn't he tied up?" The scientist peered at him from the control panel where he'd apparently shut off the controls.

"We did ask for spies for the experiments," came the dry reply of his assistant. "Good thing, too, or you would be out one experimental subject with nothing more than a rabid ghost dog to show for it."

"Rabid!" The other man snapped his fingers. "That was the difference, why it attacked. And explains the fear for the manifest as well."

They both turned to look at Andrei, who didn't look any better for having the machines turned off. His eyes were still wide in fear, and he obviously wasn't seeing any of them. The whimpers had turned instead to the repetition of a name, over and over again in a low cry no louder than a whisper. "Toni... no... Toni..."

"Too much power to bring that one last one up. Too remote. I think you've fried him." The assistant poked at Andrei, who didn't react.

"He was a waste anyhow," the scientist shrugged. "But that's interesting... the fear he has. I think it's fear for somebody _else_ , not him. That's why the power had to dig so deep."

There was a pause. "That and he was just a really poor subject. We'll need a new one."

From Andrei, they both looked to Napoleon, who met their gazes and tried hard to not be as afraid as he was. 

... ... ...

He had intended to fight them, to show them what a true field agent could do, to win his freedom and escape... but in the end, all they had to do was wait until he passed out from blood loss.

So much for spy credentials.

When he woke up, he was secured in the chair, his right arm bandaged and not hurting quite as much. Napoleon feared it wouldn't soon be his most important concern. 

They gave him water to drink and bread to eat, though, sadly, not freeing his hands to do it. They apparently knew how to treat blood-loss, which wasn't nearly the reassuring thing it was in hospitals with nurses.

And then they started.

Pain he was used to. Pain and he were practically old friends, they lived together so often. Fear... was not his favorite thing, but it, too, was a familiar companion at times.

When they turned the dial to death, Napoleon felt that too, as something he was very, very close to.

There were gasps of delight near him.

"Look at it! Look at all of it! So much... so much lovely, lovely death. Oh, so beautiful."

The world was blue in his eyes, a constant shimmer of blue as face after face paraded through his mind, and probably not just his mind. All the people he'd killed. All the people he couldn't save. All the ones simply dying around him, killed by others or circumstances. 

For all there was, the color should have been red, not blue.

"We need one of them, only one. Bring one out that we can use..."

He was there among his dead, his pain was sorrow for some, joy for others. But when the fear came, the faces started falling away. 

His friends went first, though some stayed – those who had had the hardest deaths, who looked at him now with the most sorrow. The ones he'd killed mostly followed after – though his life was in danger often, he generally wasn't afraid; trying too hard to stay alive and make sure _he_ was the one who came out on top. They were dead, he wasn't – this wasn't a cause for fear. The bystanders disappeared so quickly he wasn't even sure who they all had been. The innocents he sorrowed for, but did not fear.

"They're all going." Disappointment through every syllable of the words. "All the beauty. So much lovely, lovely death... Turn up the fear."

Napoleon cried out, hearing his voice like a seagull, like a kitten, cawing and crying. It did not sound like a human. Fear. He was afraid... he was terrified. They were coming for him, he had to break free. They were going to blow up the world, he had to stop them. They were going to kill Illya...

The wheel stopped spinning. His most intense fear, the one that gave him nightmares, the one he constantly reassured himself against and yet lived with constantly. It wasn't for him. It was never for him.

"Illya..." Napoleon whimpered, thrashing inside his bonds. His head was strapped solidly down so the electrodes would not fall. His body didn't matter. It never mattered. He didn't matter. The only thing he cared about...

John Smith looked at him and grinned. He held up a bloody knife that still dripped with Illya's blood. 

Napoleon had killed him. Napoleon _knew_ that he had killed him. The bastard had been there, too far away, too far... but Napoleon had seen his hand in Illya's hair, pulling him back, exposing his neck. Red covered Illya's middle and his arm. It dripped from the knife that Smith had held above Illya's neck. Napoleon was too. Far. Away. 

He took the shot anyway. Several shots. Too close to Illya, but what choice did he have?

And Smith had died, and Illya had lived.

But that was then, and this was now and Smith was here now, solid and real, with a glowing blue nimbus around him and Illya's blood dripping off his knife. 

He laughed, the bastard. Laughed and laughed and laughed.

And then turned to the cell.

Napoleon's fear spilled out around him, terror in his blood and in his veins. Never for him, not for him. But for others...

Smith walked to where Andrei drooled in a corner, his fear-filled eyes locked inside and not even seeing the nightmare that approached him.

That was the only consolation that Napoleon had as his fears unraveled through the night.

That, and that the power went out before the ghost left the building.

... ... ...

Illya went back to the trail he'd been following, and added his new knowledge to the old. The two younger agents with him were the best of their generation, their successes starting to add up to Illya and Napoleon's record for their time. He and Napoleon still had more, but that was by dint of time in the field, something that he hoped these two would be able to have more of themselves. 

He asked no questions of them, knowing their records well. They asked plenty of him. Of this case and others. Illya answered them grimly, aware of every passing minute, yet some parts could not be rushed.

The trail led to a house in a town outside of Basel, where they confirmed Mr. Paszek had been killed originally, before his body was dumped the next city over. The house was a rental, the tenants description familiar to Illya after tracking them over three countries and a thousand miles. The burnt-out electrical circuits were new.

Illya turned around in the bare room, standing in the middle. The main obvious point of attention was the cell in the corner, installed recently and somewhat half-hazardly, yet solid enough for all that. The blood across the floor was old and dried. A human's worth of blood. 

Less obvious were the signs of other things and a careful removal. There were holes in the floor where something large had been solidly bolted down, now gone. There were scuff marks where something metal and square-ish had scraped the wood. There were burn marks and a faint smell of electrical scortching in the air. There was a line along the floor.

Illya frowned at that last. It was a silver line going from wall to wall, demarking off either a third of the room or two-thirds of the room, depending on the view. 

Ms. Yoshima was already kneeling beside it, bringing out her field kit to test. Mr. Griffith was prowling the inside of the cell, intent on the piece of rope he'd picked up. 

Illya didn't bother to tell either of them not to touch anything. This was a crime scene, but they were here to move on to the next, not to waste time in minute carefulness. They needed to know every detail, and then move on. 

"This was cut with an UNCLE shoe-blade," Mr. Griffith pronounced. "The wear patterns are familiar."

"This is silver," Ms. Yoshima deduced, "Alloyed with molybdenum and gallium."

Illya's eyebrows rose. Mr. Griffith's conclusion was expected, knowing Napoleon and how he preferred to be kitted out in a diplomatic suit. Ms. Yoshima's was unexpected, and unusual. "What ratios, Ms. Yoshima?"

"Will you _please_ call us by our first names?" Sashi Yoshima sighed. "It's a grim enough case without having you constantly doing that."

Mack Griffith concurred heartily. 

Illya gave over. This wasn't the first time they had asked him, and it wasn't like he hadn't worked with both of them before. He'd been trying hard to hold himself remote, but they were having none of it.

It reminded him, in some ways, of what Napoleon had been like ages back, before they'd become friends. Napoleon had always tried harder than he had, notwithstanding the general differences in their approach. Napoleon's general friendliness towards everybody had limits. His approach towards Illya had changed after they'd worked together a few times, becoming more personal and covetous. 

Napoleon had seen in Illya the same things Mr. Waverly had, and wanted to tie them to himself, to utilize and blend for a greater whole. He also had won a few of Illya's rare smiles and his returned interest. There was no holding Napoleon at arm's length after that.

"What are the ratios, Sashi, if you will?" Illya asked again, politely. Inwardly, he was casting through the various elements and properties – both scientific, and those in folklore as well. Not everybody went by logical science, and logical science didn't always explain everything.

He had studied the deaths of animals for weeks now, and he knew that while their deaths had a surface obviousness to them, they were, at the core, mysterious. A bird killed by a cat does not fall apart into black dust three days later. A dog killed by another dog does not develop black streaks that bisect it's body over time. People might die of fear, but their brains were not usually overstimulated enough to leave shockmarks on the interior of their skull, in very specific patterns. 

He glanced back at the marks on the wooden floor. His quarry had moved, again, but this time they had left more than they'd intended to. And they'd also taken something very valuable with them. A person. A partner. Someone that Illya would move heaven and earth and hell and fire if he needed to in order to get him back.

"We are detouring to Rheinfelden," Illya stated abruptly. There was something he needed to pick up. "Then we'll be heading north."

The prey thought that they were the predator and they had what they wanted. They were going home. Illya knew where their nest was, and would meet them there.

... ... ...

As they were driving, Illya's comminutor shrilled an urgent alert. Sashi was driving while Illya navigated, so he was free to open it. "Yes?"

"Illya! We got a call from Napoleon!" It wasn't the usual dispatcher – it was the head of the division, and Wanda knew them both well. She was normally calm and cool, the bedrock upon which the others in her group modeled themselves on. She was not calm now.

"Patch me th---" 

She cut him off, "The signal is gone. We never got any indication that he could hear us. But Illya..."

Illya closed his eyes briefly. "Let me hear it."

"Playback commencing."

There were sounds of relays changing and switches clicking. Then Napoleon's voice was there.

"Illya? Illya..."

He sounded afraid. Napoleon never sounded afraid, even when he was.

"They wanted death. They wanted mine..." a bitter laugh even as scrambling sounds indicated he was running. "They made a line, but my ghosts are too many. Too many, too much death. They wanted it, now it's theirs." A sharp gasp of pain, the distinctive sound of a communicator dropped. Then fumbling as it was picked up again. "They need me. Illya... don't come. They'll want you. Death and fear. It's---"

There was the distinct sound of a whip snap, a sharp cry from Napoleon, and then the communicator went dead.

"Napoleon," Illya whispered, unable to remain completely silent after that.

"I'm sorry, Illya," Wanda said. "That's all we have."

Illya's hand tightened around his communicator and he forced himself not to break it. "Tracking?"

"There wasn't much time, but we're working on it. Initial estimates..." there was a pause while she talked softly with somebody else in the office. "Feldberg"

Illya nodded. A little south of where they were headed, but the initial estimates were probably picking up on the larger town. It wouldn't be long, now.

... ... ...

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/bonniejean1953/10302283/14463/14463_1000.jpg)

The house was probably once an ancient tavern. Ancient for a recent period in human terms, not geological. Probably an old stop on the roads before cars, in the mid to late 1800s. It had been well-kept, however, and there were no loose shingles or broken windows. Behind the house was a generator and power-station more apt for supplying electricity to small towns rather than single buildings.

"Are we going in?" Mack asked softly, peering through his own augmented binoculars.

" _I_ am going in," Illya said pointedly. "You two are staying out here."

They grumbled, as they had been since Illya had first outlined the plan. Since it's what he himself would have done if forced to inaction, he endured it with stoicness, if not patience. 

"I only have one kinetic disrupter, and it's short-ranged," Illya repeated himself with the salient point.

"Ectoplasmic disrupter. That you got from a _medium_." Sashi said with disbelieving outrage.

Illya lifted one shoulder and dropped it. He didn't entirely care what they believed, or didn't believe, as long as they followed orders. Illya himself had always walked a fine line between the rational and irrational in the field. He was a scientist by nature and training, yet he'd also run with the Romani, as much as they would let him, an outsider by birth. He worked in the labs, yet the things he had encountered into as a field agent were not always the things he could study and quantify. 

Both he and Napoleon listened to their instincts as oft as their reason, and lived when logic would have them dead.

Right now, his instincts were telling him that Napoleon lived. Logic told him Napoleon was in grave danger. And he didn't care how it made him look to the younger agents, Illya was doing what he damn well could to get Napoleon out. 

"Give me an hour, then if you don't hear from me... contact Headquarters." Undoubtedly they would follow Illya in, but Illya wouldn't tie their hands that far. If they hadn't heard from him in an hour, it would be their call then.

Back door, front door, it probably didn't make much difference at this point. He headed for the front door.

Before he got there, a man stepped out through the door. Without opening it first.

Behind him, the other two agents gasped. 

It was Illya, only an Illya dressed in a Nazi uniform with a blue glow all around him.

Illya narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. It wasn't him. It was Nexor. He knew Nexor, he had _killed_ Nexor. There were subtle differences that his impersonation had never been able to quite get, though it had been close enough for the bad guys. Nexor was dead. And yet here he was. 

Nexor smiled sadistically at him and raised his gun.

Illya wasn't about to find out if ghost bullets killed. He raised his kinetic disruptor and waited for a good moment to move forward to use it.

From behind him, shots were fired with the muted sound that indicated darts instead of bullets. 

The agents with him were UNCLE's best; they had the highest scores on marksmanship. Their darts thumped into the door and wall of the building, likely going through blue Nexor along the way and having no effect on him.

It was, however, good for a distraction as Nexor glanced their way. Illya lunged forward and activated the disruptor.

Nexor opened his mouth in a scream but there was no sound from his lips. Instead, a high-pitched whine of an overload filled the air around them, growing shriller until Illya almost covered his ears. He had a feeling, though, it wouldn't have done any good.

Then Nexor dissolved, the blue glow brightening until his features were nearly wiped out, and he puddled like the witch in Oz, only much more graphically, until there was only a blue smear on the porch. 

Illya stared down at it. "Any more questions about the kinetic disrupter?"

There was a brief pause. "Where can we get more of them?"

"It was the only one she had."

There was another pause. "One hour," Mack finally agreed, which Illya noted he hadn't before.

... ... ...

Inside, the shrill overload sound that had been so loud when Nexor was dissolving was present but muted, a background noise. Constantly there but one step removed. Fingernails over a chalkboard in the next room over.

 

And there were bodies on the floor. The front door led directly into what once would have been the drinking room, remade into a living room, remade into a mad scientist's staging area. The bodies were spread through the room.

Or, not exactly bodies, but near to it. They were glowing blue, they were dead people, dead again. Not dissolved into blue smears like Nexor, but lying where they dropped, or crawled, or fell. Some dead of gunshot wounds, some of knives, some whose wounds he could not see. 

He recognized all of them, those who still had faces to be recognized. Patil, Karmak, Dabree, Ueda... People who they had fought against. Some Thrush, some their own brand of evil. All people who wanted power and would not hesitate to get it. People who had held Illya captive for both that power and some for revenge as well. Illya had many, many scars from people such as they. They were all dead. Had been dead before he'd walked in the door and seen them again. 

Illya worried about Napoleon being in their dead grasp. 

Cautiously, he made his way through the crowded house. Mad scientists were as bad as hoarders, with the amount of junk they piled in corners and hallways.

Another ghost came through a wall and saw him. With a silent scream of delight, Maya came towards him, billy clubs flicking out. Illya dodged but was clipped by the edge of one of them. Pain disproportionate to the bruising power of the club flashed through his body. Even as he started to fall, he thumbed the disrupter and watched her face fall with him. 

He ended up on the floor in a puddle of blue goo, not sure if he'd lost consciousness or not. When he rolled up his sleeve, he wasn't surprised to find a blackened mark there, somewhere between a bruise and a burn, and much more painful than either. 

He would have to be more cautious.

In a normal search pattern, Illya would have covered all of the first floor initially, quartering it out, before moving to the upper floors.

His instincts, though, were telling him to go up. Up was were the problems were. Hopefully, up was where Napoleon was as well.

The stairs were between the sections of the house. No attempts for safety had been made to keep the railings up to date, or the junk off the steps. Illya kept one hand almost, but not quite touching the wall as he moved along, his attention expanded with all senses for any attacks. 

Surprisingly, he made it up to the second story without any, though he'd carefully not touched the blue gel along one section of broken railing. He hadn't seen a body accompanying it, and wondered.

At the landing, his instincts were split. Part of him was still saying the root of all evil was up, up further in the house. A more immediate draw, though, was closer. 

Illya stiffened as he saw a gleam of metal on the floor below the stairs. He moved off the landing and made his way to the shattered communicator. It would have landed there if somebody had been coming down from the third floor and been attacked. The lights weren't on and the windows weren't letting in enough for him to see. 

With a curse that didn't make it past his lips, Illya used his free hand to pull out a flash light and look around.

Laying tangled together in death were two of his worst nightmares: Mother Fear and Miss Diketon. Mother Fear's whip had been yanked from her grip and used to strangle her. Miss Diketon had been stabbed multiple times with her own dagger. It was obvious from the positions that they had killed each other. No honor among thieves or killers, even beyond the grave. 

Something besides the ever-present shrilling caught his attention.

Illya abandoned caution and ran for the back rooms.

The first thing he saw was Ben Whipple with his long knife, menacing somebody on the ground. Illya knew that knife well. He just didn't know why Whipple was waiting. Part of that became clear as another figure walked through the wall and shook his head at Whipple, making him back away. It took Illya a moment to recognize the gentleman Thrush agent, Jordin. It had been many, many years since he'd seen him, though they had seen a lot of him early on. As many times as they had thought he'd died, he'd somehow always slipped away and came back to intersect with their cases again, until the final death. Well, final until now.

While Illya hesitated, it was only his years of reflexes that let him dodge the attack by deadly hair pin. He still felt the flash of pain that let him know how close it had been. With a back-handed blow, he flicked the button on the disruptor, dissolving his attacker before he'd even seen her clearly.

The other ghosts in the room gaped at him and the blue puddle by his feet. Then they attacked as well, though more cautiously, splitting up and using distance as their main weapon. 

Illya was hampered by his inability to use distance in return. He swallowed and settled into a knife-fighting stance, low to the ground, with the disrupter in hand instead of a knife. Keeping track of both Whipple and Jordin at the same time wasn't easy, though he was aided by their blue glow that never let them blend in with the dark.

After a few moments of circling and dodging, Illya had a shot at Whipple and took it. Only to look with horror as the disrupter sputtered and didn't activate.

In that moment of distraction, Jordin was upon him from the back.

And then Napoleon knocked Jordin away, tackled Illya down and covered him with his own body.

"Stay under me," Napoleon whispered. "They won't hurt me."

The fear and pain in Napoleon's voice suggested otherwise, along with the trembling of his limbs as he lay against Illya.

But the ghosts didn't come near.

"Napoleon," Illya reached his hand to Napoleon's face, touching the tear-tracks there. He had all sorts of questions about Napoleon's health, his well-being, how badly he'd been hurt... he shoved them all to one side for the larger goal. "How do we stop this?"

Napoleon swallowed, shaking uncontrollably. He rested his head on Illya's and curled his arms around him. "The machine. It's still active. I thought if I could get loose... but it's still _in_ me. Illya, don't die."

Funny, that's what Illya had been wanting to say to Napoleon. He tugged for a bit more room, then rolled them both to one side as he saw Whipple slashing as he saw an opening. Jordin hauled Whipple back, aborting it even as Napoleon cried out in pain.

They ended up in a corner, Illya on the inside, Napoleon protecting him outside, even as Napoleon shed tears from the effort. There was no way they were making it to wherever the machine was.

Illya exchanged the disrupter for a pen and uncapped the communicator. "Local relay. Griffith and Yoshima."

"Illya!" The worried but glad sounds of the other agents came through clearly. "The building has been flicking with blue light since you went in, and there have been electrical discharges. Another ghost came out but didn't see us and headed down the road."

Illya glanced at Napoleon. 

Napoleon shuddered. "It's the machine. Stop it, everything else stops."

"Kill the generator," Illya ordered. "I don't care what you have to do, but take it down."

"Blow it up?" 

There were, honestly, times that Mack really reminded Illya of himself. Other times it was Sashi. 

"Do what you need to. Just stop it." Illya cut the connection before they could come up with anything else. They could do it.

There was a certain stillness from beyond. 

Illya peered around Napoleon to see Jordin walking through the walls and Whipple preparing to follow him. They'd heard the conversation, damn it.

Disentangling himself from Napoleon, Illya lunged out and tried to tackle Whipple. Fell right through him, but it drew the killer's attention back to him at least. This was not necessarily a good thing, but it was a necessity. 

This time, the disrupter worked.

Before the ghost had finished collapsing, Illya was back on the communicator, warning them of the dangers heading towards them. He thought about finding a window and dropping the disrupter to them, but the time that would take and the uncertainty around it made it less than feasible. 

Napoleon pulled Illya back to him, retreating to their corner where he could hold Illya while Illya watched over Napoleon's shoulder for more ghosts.

"Oh God, Illya. I keep seeing them, hurting you. Over and over again." Napoleon shuddered again. "Please, please tell me you're real and alive."

Illya caressed Napoleon with his free hand, carding his fingers through the messy hair. "I'm here. I'm real. I'm alive. And so are you."

Napoleon laughed, bordering on hysteria. "So many deaths. So much fear." He whimpered. "Make it stop, Illya. Please."

With all that was within him, Illya held to Napoleon, trying to help in the only way he could at the moment, while they waited. He pressed his lips against Napoleon's, not in passion but in the truth of them. 

His partner took the reassurance, but it obviously didn't stop the waves of fear going through him. Illya was impressed with how coherent he was, actually. He had been where his partner was now, and fear that was imposed externally was a hard thing to fight. 

"I'm here," Illya repeated, moving his lips to Napoleon's forehead, where he could watch the rest of the room.

There was a loud explosion, the building rocked, something exploded above them, and then silence reigned. The last of the blue glows around the edges of the walls flickered and died. The blue puddles on the floor faded out.

In his arms, Napoleon slowly stopped shivering.

The communicator beeped at him.

With a sigh, Illya reconnected it. "You did it, the power is out." He spoke before they did. 

There was a pause as the agents had to find a new line. Napoleon stifled a chuckle, raising his head and mouthing "meanie" at Illya. Illya's heart lifted to see his partner's recovery.

"The generator is down," Mack finally reiterated the obvious, just because. "Both of us are clear." 

Sashi's voice muttered in the background, "Mostly."

"Should we come inside?" Mack ignored her.

It was nice of them to ask. 

Illya tilted his head at Napoleon. "Any traps?"

Napoleon shrugged, though his right shoulder barely moved. "Doubtful. They came here in a hurry last night, straight up to the lab. They didn't stop to avoid any triggers."

Illya nodded, and then addressed the communicator. "Yes. Proceed immediately to the third floor. The relevant machine is up there, and the power disruption caused an explosion of some sorts. Please make sure nothing is burning up there, and preserve our evidence."

"They'll find two bodies up there," Napoleon remarked, dropping his head back to Illya's shoulder.

"Your scientist?"

"And his helper." Napoleon huffed a small laugh. "They had protection from the ghosts they raised, but..."

"But they put it in a line, and ghosts can walk through walls." Illya would have used a circle, himself. There was a reason it was traditional.

"Yes. And my ghosts... were more than they'd expected."

Illya could hear the front door open and the voices of the other agents.

"Do you need first aid?" Illya had to ask that before they got any further.

Napoleon did his half-shrug again, bringing Illya's attention to the bandaged right arm. "Not immediately. I'm going to need another rabies shot, though."

"You always love those," Illya dryly remarked. Then he paused. "From a ghost?" None of the prior victims of the ghost had ever survived, that he knew of. Now, that would be three of them. Himself, Napoleon, and he thought probably Mack. They would all be spending some time in the quarantine part of the hospital, most likely.

"Yeah." Napoleon's voice was bitter and sad. Not one of Napoleon's ghosts, most likely. Probably the Interpol agent. Illya hid a wince.

Sashi and Mack came to view on the landing. They paused there, their weapons out as they scanned for danger. They saw Napoleon and Illya, still curled together.

Illya nodded at them to proceed. Without a word, the two didso, not even looked at each other first. Good instincts, those two, and fine agents. They would go far.

Napoleon chuckled. "Picking out our replacements?"

"As if." Illya sniffed.

Napoleon uncurled a little more. "That was... Mack. And Sashi?"

Illya affirmed it, and Napoleon hummed softly. "Good choices." He paused, then said quietly. "It's time, Illya."

"Section One?" All field agents came with an expiration date, some by circumstance, some by choice, some by no choice. Napoleon had been resisting it for some time, and allowed to as they hadn't wanted to push him too far. Field agents were also known to be volatile. 

"Yes. But only if you come too."

Illya had expected that. It was inevitable, with the two of them.

"I can't... all the people who have hurt you, tortured you, nearly killed you. They're dead, but there are so many..."

"I was meaning to ask," Illya said dryly, "If they're all _your_ ghosts, why were they all connected to _me_? Mother Fear never even touched you."

Napoleon drew back enough to look into Illya's eyes, reaching up to stroke his cheek and run his fingers over all parts of Illya he could reach. "Because they had to manifest on fear, and I never feared for me, only for you."

As Illya did for Napoleon. He leaned in, reassuring Napoleon with a long and lingering kiss, petting Napoleon back. Both of them had always been tactile to each other, moreso than any other. It carried through to their private lives as well.

When they broke away, they didn't speak for awhile, simply listening to the sounds of the agents exploring above them, and their voices floating down the stairs.

"How did you survive?" Illya finally asked.

Napoleon shrugged. "They were my ghosts. The machine brought them to life, of sorts, but they were tied to me as long as my fear could feed them. Kill me, they would die again. The scientist explained that, before they killed him."

Napoleon paused thoughtfully. "I never even knew their names. They never spoke them in my hearing. It was just the scientist and his assistant. They didn't care enough about me to introduce themselves. I wasn't the audience, just a prop."

"Ah, but they weren't the focus of the story, and not the survivors." Illya could have told their names, but he admitted to an inclination towards pettiness and didn't want to. They had hurt his Napoleon. They could remain nameless and dead.

"Were there many deaths?" Napoleon asked hesitantly. 

Illya knew what he was asking. Unwinding himself from Napoleon's arms, he started that wound check he'd put off. "Only Mr. Paszek. Here... the ghosts hadn't yet made it out the door." In addition to the bandaged arm, Napoleon also had a whip-mark on his other hand, and a few cuts along his chest. 

"Apparently not all the ghosts cared."

Napoleon suffered through the wound care, knowing Illya wouldn't stop. He huffed another laugh. "Some did. Some... protected me. They were all killers, all had hurt you, I feared enough that they came through, but in the end... not everything was so clear."

Illya paused, his hands on Napoleon's chest, flatting over one side to feel his heartbeat there. He... he wasn't sure if he wanted to know. Giving them something other than the horror of a ghost was to lead to questions about what else they might have been, and if they were truer than that, not just pulled from Napoleon's imagination. But he had seen for himself how the logical Jordin had intervened with the hot-headed Whipple.

"Miss Diketon," Napoleon said quietly, taking the choice of asking away from Illya. "Colonel Morgan." They kept the others away, and died again, protecting me."

"You feared Colonel Morgan?" Illya blinked. Sorrowed for, was disappointed in, yes. But feared? He resumed his work on Napoleon's body, putting his shirt to rights again. 

"He left you. He deliberately trapped you there and left you, though I didn't realize it at the time, and he left you to die. Who knows what else he might have done? You'd followed me for loyalty, as I had followed him, and he betrayed me with your life." Napoleon said flatly.

Illya snorted softly. "That was probably why." He avoided any mention of Miss Diketon, and Napoleon didn't expand. The psychotic woman had first tortured him, then rescued him, and she was twisted enough to mix different emotions into both. She featured as heavily in some of his nightmares as the lesser Mother Fear did. It was fitting they'd both died together. Maybe he'd have fewer nightmares now, with all the second deaths. Though he rather feared Napoleon would have more.

"I won't go into Section One," Illya announced, settling back into Napoleon's arms as he concluded his friend wasn't in any danger of bleeding out soon. He was still pasty and cold, though, shock replacing the tremors of his body. Warm and care were always a good remedy for that.

Automatically, Napoleon brought Illya closer to him. "You won't?" His voice dripped with worry and disappointment. "I... I can't tell you what to do, Illya. But..."

Illya stretched and laid a finger over Napoleon's lips. "I won't go into Section One, because they would assign us apart. We're each too valuable to waste resources like that. But I will leave Section Two, and I will stay by your side. For as long as you'll have me."

Napoleon buried his face in Illya's hair, then kissed him again. "That would be always, my partner. Always."

There would be more deaths later – in their line of work, it was inevitable. And fear. For each other and for the world. But for now, they had overcome them again, and what was left was each other, and the peace of together. For now, it was the world they had. A perfect intersection of love and trust.

* * *

END

... 

**Author's Note:**

> story notes:
> 
> I am not all that fond of creepy stuff myself, but the request was for 'eerie'. Hopefully it was appropriately skin-crawling! (If not in a conventional way.)
> 
>  
> 
> References for those who want them (not all of them died in their episodes):  
> \- Nexor, S4, "The Gurnius Affair"  
> \- Dr. Dabree, S1, "The Brain-Killer Affair"  
> \- Viktor Karmak, S4, "The Deadly Quest Affair"  
> \- Frank Cariago, S3, "The Super-Colossal Affair"  
> \- Col Morgan, S1, "The Secret Scepter Affair"  
> \- Miss Diketon, S3, "The Concrete Overcoat Affair"  
> \- Mother Fear, S2, "The Children's Day Affair"  
> \- Olga, S1, "The Bridge of Lions Affair"  
> \- Jordin, S1, "The Bridge of Lions Affair"
> 
> Plus some I made up because they have more cases than just what we saw.
> 
> 'Wanda' reference made for Rallamajoop. ^^


End file.
